In the Looking Glass
by brightneeBee
Summary: Hermione watched Voldemort fall during the Battle. She watched him fall, but he still managed to escape and no one else saw. No one else saw, and now Hermione has been trapped in an odd idea of a prison. How long will she be trapped? What will happen to her? Why is everything so shiny?
1. Prologue

**In The Looking Glass**

 **Fic exchange date:** 15th June 2013

 **Written for Allie 3**

 **Author:** brightneeBee

 **Characters:** Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle, Voldemort

 **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Rating:** M

 **Warnings:** Contains non-graphic violence, sexual situations, light UST

 **Genre:** suspense, general

 **Spoilers:** Voldemort lives (no surprise there, though)

 **Beta:** yes/no (if yes, please mention who). Please have the courtesy to thank your betas if you had any. (Betas aren't required for posting on our site, but every reader appreciates proper spelling/grammar). **Honestly, I did not have a beta for this fic. I usually never have a beta, so if you ever see any mistakes, let me know.**

 **Summary:** Hermione watched Voldemort fall during the Battle. She watched him fall, but he still managed to escape and no one else saw. No one else saw, and now Hermione has been trapped in an odd idea of a prison. How long will she be trapped? What will happen to her? Why is everything so shiny?

 **A/N:** Dear Allie, I am so sorry it has taken me so long to post this. Please, forgive me for the delay. I won't even spew excuses. I'm hoping all 7 chapters make up for my bad, bad procrastinating ways. I wanted to give you new and interesting and two Dark Lords, and I hope this gives you all that, and more.

 **PROLOGUE**

 _I have spent my entire life attempting to piece together how it all would end. Would I die an old lady in my bed, toasty warm and happily reliving a lifetime of fond memories? Would I die young, miserable and alone? Would I be missed? Will I have achieved everything I had listed when I was little girl; become a surgeon or a specialist in the world of academia? Cure cancer and mold the minds of the future? Fall in love and live happily ever after? Would I? Could I? Should I?_

 _So many questions, but to them I still have no answers._

 _My father used to say, "Every person carries a badge. Some symbol of their allegiance." Even as a young child, I understood that the badge was metaphorical. As an adult, I finally, fully, understood the underlying meaning of what my father had been telling me. My father was preparing me for what was to come, without realizing how much it would help me differentiate between the Light, the Dark, and the Neutral people in the wizarding world. And to understand the most evil wizard of all time._

 _His were the scars of an orphan who had used his cunning and the fear he could instill to climb the social ladder of the pureblood circles. A halfblood who had gained the respect of his peers - even though he believed, always believed, himself superior to them - through painted words and homicidal lust. He'd sworn an oath of violence...And his master? His own insatiable will to power. He wanted to rule over the world - wizarding and muggle, both. His name was - is - Tom Riddle, although most people know him as the Dark Lord. Or Lord Voldemort. He was building an empire, and I was his insurance._

 _I always thought my life would be routine, cut and dry and unexciting; perfectly mundane. If I had been told how my life would actually be, the friends I would make and the adventurous, dangerous journey I would share with them - the magic of it all - I would have laughed at whoever suggested it to me. It would have seemed ridiculous and illogical to me, even as a young girl; magic and monsters and evil wizards trying to take over the world. And that I would find myself in a storyline so incredibly unbelievable and complex - something straight out of a Doctor Who episode - I would not have believed a single word. That I would fight in a magical war, only to fall for the enemy; utterly preposterous. Even now, as reality is crashing down around me to fit into the ever changing dynamic that is life, I am finding it quite difficult to comprehend as "real." This journey's end just seems far too much a fairy tale to be considered an actual reality, my reality._

 _My name is Hermione Granger, and this is the story of how I died..._


	2. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

8 May 1998, Hogwarts

I watched as the Dark Lord fell, lifeless to the stone floors of the Great Hall. His skin just as bone-white in death as in life; eyes still as vibrant and scarlet red; body still thin and tones, with spider-like, long fingers, and a sense that this was only the end of a chapter, not the climatic end to the entire story. No one could even look at the corpse. They had seen him fall, and had watched Harry raise the yew wand in triumph, and that had been enough for them. Anyone who had looked upon the Dark Lord, in either state - alive or in death, if they chanced a glance - found the serpentine features horrifying, but they were hardly looking, weren't they? They didn't see the beauty; the bone structure that had carried over from his previous self; the timeless whisper underneath the horror everyone else saw, was the handsome man from decades ago. They saw the monster, but I was about to bear witness to so much more. No one would care to remember the brilliance underneath the surface, but I would. I will mourn for that lost brilliance, I would grieve. Even if I never actually met him, never came face to face with Voldemort, his boundary breaking intellect would be sorely missed by me. As a man I would have been honored to learn from, if given the chance.

And in all the confusion, the chaos and cries of victory, no one noticed the wisp of life leaving Voldemort's body. No one, but me. I witnessed the last breath being carried off in a burst of wind that was both strong and fleeting. Through the crumbled walls and out through the shattered glass windows behind what used to be the Head table. Dust and debris followed after, on the tail end of the breeze, blinding everyone for just a moment, and then it all settled. No more breeze, no sounds other than the joyous celebration as the remaining Death Eaters were subdued. And yet, all I heard was silence. Deaf to everything but the window. That window in which Voldemort's last breath had disappeared through on a spontaneous wind. With its shattered remains sticking out in odd, sharp intervals from the framing. The clean lines of glass stained with blood, Snape's blood when he fled from the Order, outmatched by Professor McGonagall. I wasn't quite sure what the significance of the blood was as I stared at it. Deep down it sparked something and I refused to budge until I figured it out. It was important, otherwise that wisp of the Dark Lord - that last piece of him - wouldn't have floated all the way through the Great Hall to escape through this specific portion of open window.

I swayed, knees weak as I continued to stare at the glass and blood stains. I don't remember how long I'd been standing there, but from how hungry and dehydrated I felt, it was safe to guess longer than a day, or two. People had come by, trying to pull me away to a cot. Or to force food into my hands, but I refused to move. There was something significant, something very important about the window that I had yet to figure out. _He_ was testing me; to see if I could connect the dots. Like a code, _he_ wanted to see if I could crack it; align the meanings, because I was the only one who knew. And _he_ knew that I was the only one who had seen him escape, because he had done it on purpose. He had singled me out, for what I did not know. That was the point, wasn't it? To decipher the hidden message of the glass? I was at war with myself on whether or not I should help him. Or let him flounder out there in the world. Slowly dying, slowly disappearing until he would be dead. Honestly dead, and for good.

"She's been standing there for days, mate," I heard Ron from somewhere behind me, vaguely. "Neville said he heard her muttering something about codes. It's bloody weird, Harry."

"I know, Ron, but no one can move her. It's like she's glued to the spot," said Harry, and I understood they were worried, but at a time like this I really wanted them to bugger off.

"We could blast her." I didn't recognize that voice until Harry and Ron snapped in unison, "Shut it, Malfoy."

That was a surprise. What was Malfoy doing here?

"Maybe if we dangled a book in front of her-"

"I can hear you," I croaked, throat parched from lack of water. A goblet of pumpkin juice sounded divine, but I couldn't leave. No rest allowed until I cracked the code. I wasn't willing to gamble on the possible outcomes if I didn't put my very being into understanding what Voldemort wanted me to know. "I'm not deaf...Just go away."

"Mione, please," Ron pleaded, coming up behind me and resting his hands on my shoulders. It was an attempt to steer me away from the window, towards the tables lining the walls of the Great Hall laden with what the house elves had whipped up. "You're scaring everyone. You need to eat something and lay down. You've been staring at that window for days-"

"I've not gone loony," I interrupted, shrugging his hands off my shoulders and turning back to the window, memorizing the lines and angles of the shattered glass; the way the bloody smeared here and had dried in lines there. This pane of glass, it was mocking me, and I couldn't abandon the interest now. "I'm busy, so just go away, Ronald. Go away."

I could feel them staring at me, watching me stumble back to the window as if I were under the Imperius Curse. I went back to looking and tracing the jagged points of the glass with my eyes, correlating the Arithmantic properties of each angle until I found the answer. Or until I thought of another subject to apply in the hopes of finding the answer.

The point was smooth, less than forty degrees in angle, no rough edges, and it was coated in blood. Wet and shiny, not even remotely dry, which was odd. That much blood - after how many hours? - it should be dry by now, but it looked fresh. And there was a smudge in the midst of all the shiny, we and vibrant crimson. As if a thumb had swiped up to the perfect, sharp tip, like an arrow. I looked up to the opposite shard of glass to find half of a face leering at me.

How had I missed that? Or had that face just appeared?

Perplexed, I stepped closer to the wall - to the window - in order to better see in the blur of my own exhaustion. The half-face I saw was recognizable; that jawline, that cheekbone, the intensity in that one, dark eye. The exact same features set in a ghostly white complexion, absent a nose; I could see it clearly. And the eyes were more vibrant, as fierce as they were dark. I remember the descriptions Harry and Ginny had given about Tom Riddle. Before he altered his appearance and disappeared. Before this fresh, normal, yet extremely handsome half-a-face was reborn as the serpentine Lord Voldemort. The bone structure was undeniably his, and without realizing it, I reached up to touch the glass. Gripping the window ledge, one finger running along the edges of the sharp glass as the eye blinked and narrowed, I took a steadying breath in the hope that I did not collapse at that moment. It was all slowly clicking into place, and this moment felt pivotal.

When my finger reached the tip of a shard, I withdrew my hand in a hiss of pain. I had pricked my finger, but my focus was on the drop of blood suspended in between the two points of glass. The face in the glass - _his face_ \- grinned evilly as the drop of blood evaporated in a cloud of scarlet mist, creating a vortex that brought with it a vacuum of wind blowing through the Great Hall.

It all fell into place around me, the pieces of this complex riddle snapping into the puzzle _he_ had left behind for me. It was a trap, and I hadn't realized until it was now too late. People were screaming, and I could faintly hear Harry and Ron calling out for me over the roar of wind. The frizzy, atrocious mess that was my hair whipped limply around my head as the window rebuilt itself. Glass turned to an almost water-like substance, spreading out to become whole and smooth and complete. The silvery pane of glass reflected my image; face smudged with blood and dirt and sweat, complexion pale and sickly, hair matted in places and tangled beyond what a simple brushing could fix. The year spent running and hiding in the wilderness had not been kind to me. The sunken in cheek bones and stomach make me think of the pictures of Holocaust survivors I had seen in history books. That was what I saw before I was sucked in and the hardening glass behind me exploded outward into the shrieking crowds.

I was there one second, trapped on the other side of the glass and watching it all happen, before I was pulled through into dense darkness...


	3. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

"Ow," I whimpered, coming around from a tiresome sleep. My body ached something fierce as I shifted on what felt like a bed; a warm, soft bed. "Ouch."

I groaned as I opened my eyes to a strange place, the surroundings odd and unnerving. I couldn't focus. My vision was blurry as I rolled onto my side and sat up. Groggy and tired, I missed the shadowy shape sitting in a chair near the fireplace. I rubbed my eyes and exhaled a deep breath in an attempt to get my bearings. It was warm, not muggy or humid, but a nice, dry warmth from the fire, while the frame of the bed's headboard was cool and smooth. It wasn't an uncomfortable temperature, but it could be if I had been wearing more clothes. Looking down, I found myself wearing a simple, pale green dress. The style something I had seen in a black and white photograph, in a book about the 50s era and historical events. It was quite odd to be wearing a dress like this in the flesh. And when I reached up to run a hand through my ridiculous and untamable hair, I found it was still frizzy but braided along my hairline into a bun at the base of my head.

Taking in my surroundings, I squinted and hesitantly touched one of my bare feet to the floor. It looked like a liquid, the floors. It reminded me of a placid lake. As if I would fall through and drown as the surface rippled outward. My toe met a hard surface, and I sighed in relief before standing on unsteady legs. Everything was made of some sort of metal, like silver, and melded together seamlessly; the floors, the walls, the furniture. All reflective like a mirror.

I walked towards an archway into a bathroom, the environment the same as the - I was guessing - bedroom. The counter looked like it had been sculpted up from the floor, and the same could be said about the tub in the corner, and the toilet. Come to think of it, everything seemed to be connected to the mirror-like floors. There was also a shower carved into a wall; no glass doors or curtain, just an open space with a curved mouth of some sort at the top of the back wall. I was guessing that was where the water magically appeared. There were no tiles, or hinges, just smooth surfaces wherever I looked.

It was creepy.

I left the loo and washroom, finding another archway leading into a massive library. The light from the fire, blazing in the fireplace, bounced off the metallic surface of the floors, ceilings and bookshelves lining every single wall. It illuminated the room, glittering flames in the reflective surfaces that made it cozy and warm and almost romantic in a way. It was peaceful, calming, and I couldn't pull my eyes away from the shelves; packed tightly with books, ceiling to floor just like the library at Grimmauld Place. Libraries were my sanctuary, my weakness. The scent of old parchment pressed between leather binding was intoxicating; the call of the overstuffed chairs that promised warmth and comfort for hours. I had never been able to say no to a library, and this one was magnificent. And the titles were incredibly rare. Several, of the shelves directly in my line of sight, were supposed to be just myths. These titles weren't supposed to exist; lost in time and all that nonsense. Yet, here they were, beckoning me to graze a finger down the spine and trace the lettering burned, engraved or stitched into the worn leather.

"I would not touch those if I were a mudblood," a quiet, distinctly male voice said from behind me.

I gasped. I even clutched my chest as I spun around, as overly dramatic as it may seem. A tall man with dark, piercing eyes smirked down at me. With a face that looked like God, Himself, had sculpted it to perfection. He was a few inches taller than me, with flawless pale skin that made the sharp angles of his face stand out more in a way that seemed to make him even more handsome the longer I stared. In all honesty, I didn't know how to look away. There was no denying that Tom Riddle, at any age - even as Snakeface - was breathtakingly handsome. I was speechless as he turned to lead me away from the bookshelves. Without realizing that my legs were carrying me, I followed him to the cushioned chairs that had grown from the floor. Taking a seat on a lounge that he pointed to with his wand, I watched him take a seat near the fireplace. He sat with such smooth grace that I wondered what was wrong with me, that I could never look so fluid doing anything as mundane as sitting down.

Fidgeting with my hands, I pulled my attention away from the Dark Lord to watch the flames dance in the fire. Being in the presence of one of the most dangerous men in wizarding history was sort of intimidating. And by sort of, I mean extremely terrifying. I don't know how Harry was able to fight the Dark Lord, let alone openly defy him.

To see what Voldemort looked like, before he had been reborn in a cauldron in a muggle family cemetery was incredible. The black hair and handsome features, the curve of the corners of his lips and the way it made him seem so charming was distracting. It reminded me that he was extremely gifted in deceiving people. And I realized that if I didn't keep my wits I could be just as susceptible as everyone else who had fallen into the Tom Riddle honey pot. Yes, the whole facade he was putting on to play with me was distracting, but the sharpness of his gaze and the way he stared, as if he saw straight through me, was off-putting enough to stay focused. I may have underestimated the presence Voldemort wielded. It was daunting and nerve-wracking, and I was re-thinking the desire to learn from such a genius. Knowing what I knew of him from my own time, how quick he was to kill or torture and the manipulation games he liked to play; I was realizing just how naive I still was.

The fantasy in my head was so much better than the reality.

"So," said Voldemort - or was it Tom Riddle? - twirling his yew wand between his fingers as he narrowed his eyes and took in my appearance. "You are Hermione Granger, the mudblood friend of my future enemy."

The way he said it was demeaning, as if I were even less impressive in the flesh. Rubbed me the wrong way, it did. I crossed my arms under my bust, scoffing without even thinking about what I was doing, "And you're Lord Voldemort? _You're_ the most feared wizard in history? I don't see it...Where am I?"

"I would tread carefully, mudblood," the Dark Lord warned. Resting back in his chair, he casually aimed his wand at me, and I was fairly certain that it was by no accident the tip was pointed directly at my chest. "You would not want to find how painful it is to be on the receiving end of my wand, would you? Now, would you like to rephrase your demand into a pleasant inquiry? Perhaps add a 'sir,' as well?"

I eyed his wand in glances, trying to meet his gaze without staring him directly in the eyes. I didn't know how advanced this Riddle, at the age of say 30, was with Legilimency, but better safe than sorry, right? I was sure he would make it known if he could enter my mind without eye contact, but, again, this was the Dark Lord. No one, not even Dumbledore, could accurately say what Voldemort was capable. Not even Voldemort, I think, could admit in good conscience what he was capable of, not until after he'd done it. I had always believed most of his violence was far from premeditated, that his temper guided him as much as his intellect and thirst for power.

"May I ask where I am, please, _sir_?" I asked, more respectfully than before.

Smirking, Riddle - I was going to go with Riddle - acknowledged my reluctant obedience, "That is an improvement."

His dark eyes remained guarded as they glittered in the flickering firelight, "I believe an explanation of where exactly you are is objective to how you view time and relative dimensions of space. I also believe, that if you behave, I will provide an explanation if I feel that you have earned one. Think of this as a way to learn your place."

"And I feel that since I was brought here against my will," I said a bit too vehemently, "an explanation would be obvious, _sir_."

Something flashed behind his eyes and I knew my renewed defiance was pushing a very dangerous button. The problem was, I couldn't stop myself. I was getting a response, however volatile that response may be, and I wanted bloody answers. And I wanted them right now.

Riddle had his face schooled, but I now knew pushing back instead of rolling over for him was an easy route to take. He'd slip up and give me something soon, or I'd be tortured. Or killed. Either way, it would be far better than not knowing anything. If I was recovering or dead, at least I wouldn't give him any information in return. And I was certain the reason I was face-to-face with this younger version of Lord Voldemort was information-related. I couldn't give anything regarding the future to him, or it would throw the entire timeline off. Every fixed event as I had known it to happen must take place for me to have arrived here, at this specific place and time. The events in between, well I would be a stickler for those as well, just to be a pain in his arse.

And then those lips of his turned upwards in a rather vicious grin.

"You are in a mirror, suspended between separate points in time. Most accurately, between this, my present, and the future, your present. So, to be entirely accurate, you are trapped in the 'tween space of time. The non-time gaps that live outside of time. Impressive, is it not?" His grin widened, and my glare began to fall with the impending dread of what he was telling me. "My future self created it _specifically_ with you in mind, Hermione. Placed in my care for the... _foreseeable future_. You cannot leave, of course, but there is a way for you to communicate if I so wish it. The wonderful little detail about this cage, is that I can come and go as I please."

I stared at him for a long time, processing the information slowly, because it seemed too generous for Lord Voldemort to simply tell me without some sort of cloak and dagger meaning behind it. Although, it did sound quite simple, but I couldn't quite grasp the "why" of it all. It was the only thing I didn't understand, and to be honest it was a bit frustrating. Why me? Why here, why now? This past self of the Dark Lord could come and go as he pleased. And old Snakeface was nowhere to be seen. I was trapped in a mirror for what reason? What was I supposed to do in here? Sit in this ridiculous maze of disorientating rooms to do as they said?

No.

"So, what you're telling me is that I am trapped, in a mirror prison, for...What purpose? What's the point?" I asked, standing my ground even though it was probably a really naive thing to do. In the back of my mind, I realized that my attitude and stubborn streak for not appearing weak would get me into a lot of trouble while dealing with two eras of Voldemort. Of course, I wasn't going to worry about that in front of...one of him. "Why am I here?"

His gaze darkened, if that was even possible, as he narrowed his eyes and chuckled, "You are going to be very difficult to deal with, Hermione Granger, very difficult. You do not get to demand answers from me. I am the Dark Lord, and I am your Master now."

"I don't see a Dark Mark on my forearm-"

In retrospect, that might not have been the best thing to retort with. He didn't even utter a word, or whisper, when he cast the curse. I was sitting on the lounge across from him, and the next second I crashed to the floor shrieking. It felt a thousand times worse, more unbearable, than anything Bellatrix could have done to me that night in Malfoy Manor. My bones felt as if blazing hot needles were digging through them. My skin felt as though it were freezing. My flesh, the musculature, felt as though it were burning from the bone outward. The sensation in my eyes was that of boiling water melting down plastic. My fingertips burned as though from an ongoing electric shock, as if I were touching a live wire and unable to let go. My legs kicked and flailed from the combination of sensations, my toes were copying the tips of my fingers, and my hair felt like daggers running across my scalp.

This was not the Cruciatus Curse.

I clawed at my body in an attempt to rip open the flesh and relieve the pain. I wanted to release the fire underneath my freezing skin, but to no avail. This wasn't the torture curse. No, it was far from that curse. It was something far, far worse, and far more painful. This was punishment on an entirely different level, and with a bloody hell of alot more ill-intent behind it. And even though it lasted only a minute, that one minute seemed to pass awful slowly. As if it had slowed to a stop and waited a while before creeping towards the end.

It was agonizing.

When it finally ended, I flexed my fingers away from my face to extract my nails that had sunk deep into the skin around my eyes. Cupping them back over my face, I felt around and traced the bleeding wounds and noticed the sharp stings of torn skin running up and down my arms. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I pulled my hands away and found bits of skin and blood under my fingernails. I wasn't a vain type of girl. I had never put much effort or given a care about how I looked, because I knew I wasn't as pretty as everyone else. It was the fact that I would be scarred worse than Bill Weasley that caused me just a slight bit of vanity. There had never been anything I could do about my unruly hair, but I had taken secret pride in my complexion, in my skin.

The chest of my dress was spotted with red, too. Arms, chest, face - I'd scratched myself worse than I'd originally thought. Without the proper ointments I would scar, but especially now that was hardly a concern of mine. I was trying to calm my breathing, regain some composure as I looked up at the smugness the Dark Lord was emanating. He twirled his wand between those long, pale fingers, as if he were considering putting me under the curse just one more time to prove a point. The thought that he was pondering was more terrifying, especially combined with the glittering look in those eyes.

"Are you reconsidering how you speak to your Master, mudblood?"

Did he have to ask in such a pompous tone? Really? Was it a required personality trait to be a Dark Lord? Was it entirely necessary for a villain? Seriously?

I clenched my hands into fists

"Are you reconsidering how you speak to your Master, mudblood?"

Did he have to ask it in such a pompous tone? Really? Was it a required personality trait to be a Dark Lord? Was it entirely necessary for a villain? Seriously?

I clenched my hands into fists against my stomach, closing my eyes, taking a deep breath and digging my nails into the palms to fight back the indignation. This temper I was displaying would need to be kept in check while dealing with both versions of the Dark Lord, no matter how difficult I may find it to do. If anything, I would need to work on my temper just to stay alive, let alone to avoid being tortured again. Whatever he had used most definitely had not been the Cruciatus Curse that Bellatrix Lestrange had used on me. No, his curse was ten times - a thousand times - worse, and by far more painful. A curse I wouldn't even wish on an enemy. Not even a Malfoy. Not even Bellatrix. It was an experience I was all too eager to avoid in the future.

Maybe I should change tactics? Instead of obstinately butting heads with the most dangerous wizard since Grindelwald, could a demure, slightly more submissive nature ply Voldemort enough to give me answers? I don't mean it in a way as to seduce him, not at all. To be honest, I was under the impression Tom Riddle was utterly and completely asexual. That, or he was so sadistic not even he knew the depths of what made him "rise to the occasion." One would think in seventy years, minus the fifteen he spent as a wisp of dying soul latching onto anything and everything that could sustain him, he would have left a trail of heartbroken women in his wake. Even an unplanned love-child, but no, nothing. He probably killed them, all those women who adored him. I was guessing, of course, but really? I could tell he had a flock of devoted girls that wished he would just look at them, for just a moment. It was how I'd felt about Ron for so many years. It wasn't a far fetched notion, because Tom Riddle at any age was utterly, breathtakingly gorgeous. All these conflicting theories I was forming, or had formed, about him, and that was the only constant fact that I could utter in certainty. He was bloody gorgeous. I just wondered how he made it across several generational eras without even making a mistake, not even once, when it came to seducing the ladies.

Could he possibly be a virgin?

"Your generation must be incredibly depraved, or it is your muggle heritage," sneered Riddle, and at that moment I was slightly embarrassed for my thoughts. And also, I was now convinced that he could, in fact, see into my mind without eye contact. If that was the case, I could now glare at him point blank, because what did it matter? He was going to listen in, might as well glare him in the eye as he did it.

That string of thought made him smirk, just a tiny quirk at the corner of his lips and then his face was smooth and emotionless. Smoothing a wrinkle in his robes, he stood and whipped his wand over the small table next to his chair. A long parchment materialized, as well as several inkwells, a pile of quills and blank rolls of parchment.

"The thoughts in your head are inappropriate, and entirely repugnant," Riddled went on to say. "Of course, my future self wrote a very interesting missive regarding you and I would be remiss if I did not heed my own judgement. You are still useful without a wand, even more so to do research during periods I am absent. With a smidgen of my knowledge, guidance and all this...spare time that you now have...Well, let me just say that my future self has very high hopes for you, Hermione Granger."

I was pushing myself to my feet, unclear if I had heard him properly as I stumbled behind him. Riddle was already leaving, and his last words were going to be, "my future self has very high hopes for you, Hermione Granger?" No, no, no.

"I have chaos to organize, mudblood," answered Riddle, obviously still listening in on her train of thoughts. He was talking to me over his shoulder. The pompous arse wasn't even bothering to look back to make certain I was there. "I am a very busy wizard. Make sure to complete your research, or the punishment will be far more...intense. I will evaluate your work in a few weeks, mudblood. Enjoy your reading."

I followed him through the confusing maze of archways in the mirror cage until we came to a dark, narrow corridor. The ceiling sloped up high above towards the end, the walls stretching further and further apart. I watched him walk through the wall at the end of the corridor, the surface rippling outwards from where he had exited this prison. Hurrying towards the ripples, in the hope of possibly escaping, I slammed into the wall. It was a stupid idea, but there was always the hope of a loophole in Voldemort's plan. There were always loopholes, even in curses created by evil wizards. I just had to find and exploit it. Patience is a virtue, and so on. And I could be patient. I could bide my time. I could do anything I put my mind to, so why would this be any different? Voldemort was not going to win. Not this time. Not ever. And not while I was still alive.

A low chuckled echoed through my prison, drawing my attention away from my throbbing nose to the figure of Tom Riddle peering in through the glass separating us. I had to look up to meet his large eyes, feeling as though I were the size of a mouse as I saw how huge in scale he looked to be. He was like a giant, and I realized that the mirror he had trapped me in must be smaller than a floor length. And he was snickering at me, the snarky git.

Stepping away with a smirk playing over his mouth, I could see the walls of a cave behind him, lit dimly by a small torch on the wall. I could even hear the tip of the torch crackle through the barrier. Riddle kept smirking as I growled in frustration and pounded on the glass. I didn't necessarily notice that the picture - or environment - changed after every slam of my fist to the mirrored wall. Not until I noticed I noticed Riddle was gone and the Voldemort I had always known lay on a stone altar in a deep slumber in my field of vision. It was like seeing the ghost of him, laying there all unaware that I was watching him. The last piece of him, and a part of Riddle's plan was snapping into place as I looked over my shoulder down the narrowing corridor. Looking back, I watched for another moment as the hollow, empty, ghostly shell of Voldemort hovered just a few centimeters above the altar surface. It was eerie, seeing the serpentine version so peaceful in rest. So eerie that I pounded my fist against the glass barrier keeping me in the mirror to change the image back to Riddle in whatever time this version of him lived.

Riddle was gone.

My palms pressed against the glass barrier - mirror barrier, whatever it bloody was - as I frantically looked for any sign that Riddle hadn't actually left. I couldn't see him, not even along the edges of my vision. He didn't materialize to gloat at my desperation. He was gone. I realized, without a wand, I was well and thoroughly trapped until I figure out a non-magic loophole in this extraordinarily planned cage. What about food? What about water? What I went crazy from the solitude? How long would a few weeks translate to?!

I was all alone.

"NOOOO!" I screamed, sliding to the floor...


	4. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

One year later...

"Are you finished with the insults and vulgarities, Granger? I do not have all day to listen to you call me such viles names when I have been so gracious to elaborate on more advanced arithmantic hypotheses," drawled Riddle from his ridiculously overstuffed chair by the roaring fireplace.

I thought of another insult and watched his eyes flash, perfectly arched eyebrow raising ever so slightly at my choice of words. That was all the warning I received before I was on the ground screaming from his own version of a torture curse. It only lasted a few seconds, but yet again I had scratched my face and arms to shreds in that short amount of time. I knew he would leave a small jar of ointment for the scars after the wounds healed, but the fact that he was still using negative methods to mold me was a bit irritating. Positive reinforcement would prove far more successful, I thought, but this was Lord Voldemort. I doubted he knew what positive reinforcement was exactly.

It was hard to comprehend that it had been a year already. A year of research, and I still hadn't read even a quarter of the library. Everything I could have ever needed was magically provided. Meals of bread and fruits appeared three times a day. A pitcher of water or teapot floated around wherever I worked in the library for the day, pouring me water whenever my goblet or teacup was perilously low. An outfit was always hovering near the bathroom archway when I awoke for the day; always a dress, and always in a shade of green. After a bath or shower, my day started in the same routine as any other. I nibbled the food my prison provided as I looked over the ever changing list on the parchment Riddle had left that first day. The names of the books he wished me to read for research, and the list he wanted me to read along with instructions for the furthering of my education. He was teaching me what could be taught without use of a wand. The promise of a wand always hung in the air, but my obstinate disposition seemed to keep it out of my grasp. I was beginning to think he was counting on my inability to bite my tongue. He also kept my wand out of reach with other ridiculous excuses. I wasn't understanding the material well enough, or fast enough. My hair wasn't done, pulled back, in the way he preferred so he didn't have to look at it when I was in his presence. My fingers were too stained with ink, I should try to put more effort into not appearing so unkempt. His insults were always low, subtle and backhanded; specifically designed to cut me down in the hopes of breaking me. And his incessant maneuvering of a conversation, or argument, to trick me into revealing something he felt was important about the future. I didn't know why he bothered, he was gathering as much as he could just by slipping in and examining my thoughts. Until I figured out a way to thwart that sneaky bit of espionage. Now I just recited _Hogwarts: A History_ in my head when he was around, and I wasn't absorbed in what material I was learning for the week.

I still didn't know what the purpose of me being here was, other than I was irritating him by not breaking under his intense teaching methods, or insults. Being angry by his sharp words was irritating to him. I wondered when he would try a different approach, but I highly doubted he thought another approach would be successful. He had such low opinions of me, still. Pompous git.

"I heard that, Granger," said Riddle as he twirled his wand between his fingers. "Get up and try to summarize the material again. I have already told you that I do not have all day. If you do not understand the concept, perhaps I should provide you with less challenging theories?"

"No," I said in reply, a little more forcefully than I probably should have, but he let it slide. Thank, Merlin. "I can do it."

"Then by all means," he made a motion with his hand, as if to say, 'please, prove me wrong.'

See? Bloody git, pain my arse.

"I heard that, too..."

Growling in irritation, I went back to the numbers and how to calculate them the 'Tom Riddle way.' The equations were beyond complex, 52 characters and 72 numbers to calculate a specific way to prove the theory, and even the theory was incredibly complicated. And if I was admitting it was complicated, it was downright impossible, but if Riddle had done it, so could I. There were quills lined up in front of the separate inkwells, red and black and green all waiting for a quill to be dipped in. I took up a fresh quill and selected green ink to start out my new attempt. I could feel Riddle staring at me as I concentrated on how to differentiate the variables, separating them just as he had told me. Him watching me wasn't as distracting as the sense that he wanted to comment on something. He wanted to speak, ask a question or inquire, but he was waiting for what he felt was the most consequential moment. I could feel it.

Switching to red ink after I finished the first half of the equation, I glanced up to see Riddle's eyes darkening as he watched me work. I was dividing the sum of the variables with the characters, sectioning the results out into two different columns for the next steps. It was horribly irritating to be watched, knowing he was going to trip me up any second. The third step from the last, he leaned back in his chair and began twirling his wand between his fingers. The second step from the last, he titled his head just ever so slightly to the side. As though he were thinking of something with slight amusement. And then he cleared his throat.

"Tell me, Granger," Riddle said, voice laced with enjoyment and curiosity. "How did it feel to be the best in your year, but trapped in Harry Potter's shadow and always under-appreciated?"

Bastard. Bloody, pain in my arse bastard. Git.

"Oh, I see I touched a nerve..."

Damn, I lost my place in the last step, I cursed internally.

Riddle smirked, still twirling his wand, "Start over, mudblood. I do not have all day to wait for you to understand this theory...Perhaps you should try to ignore your surroundings so you can focus properly?"

I'm going to kill him. And unlike Harry, I will actually succeed...


	5. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Three years later...

 _I was fairly certain that this was a dream. To start with, I was not walking through my mirror-prison, but instead a foggy, blurry version of the Hogwarts library. My sanctuary when everything was too much to deal with, when Harry or Ron or both were too much to deal with. Or when Pansy Parkinson had started a rumor. Or when Snape had been exceptionally cruel, even for him. When the magical world became heavy and overwhelming, the library at Hogwarts was the only normal place I could hide. It seemed odd that I would dream of it now, all of a sudden, when it had been almost five years - or longer? - since I had walked these hallowed aisles._

 _The titles of the old, worn tomes on the shelves were visible as the fog began to clear. There was a row of shelves that seemed to be pulling me, calling to me. And since it was a dream, I figured I should obey. What harm would come to me in a dream about a library?_

 _My fingers grazed the bindings of the books I passed, feeling the cool, soft leather and letters embroidered into the material. It felt like I was finally home, I was safe. The smell of the old parchment and the leather and the dust collecting on the highest shelves; yes, my sanctuary. I let my eyes close and my feet guide me to the row of books that was calling to me, enjoying the smell and feel of being in a place so familiar and such a comfort. The tension in me seemed to release and seep away, and I thought, just briefly, that this moment would be perfect if he was here. I don't know why the thought managed to dig its way into my mind, or why I would think it to begin with, but it was there now. It was odd to me, to desire his presence. And to almost ache when I realized he wasn't there. I couldn't feel him watching me like I could when I was awake._

 _I'm not sure when my perception, or feelings towards Riddle had changed. The first couple of years I hated him, openly argued with him during his weekly visit to check on my progress, and I continuously insulted him, even though I knew I'd get 15 seconds of that curse he created. I knew know, he had created it. Evil man, I had thought and he'd proven that statement correct. We both knew it, but it was still confirmation._

 _Maybe it was the last few months? Or the last two years, give or take? Since he had allowed me to practice with my wand on occasion as my education had branched out from theoretical subjects to field applications, perhaps? Was it when he began grazing his fingers over the exposed skin of my shoulders as he leaned over to examine my notes? Was it the way his eyes darkened when he watched me concentrate and succeed on the second try? Was it when he started showing up in my dreams? I couldn't possibly be certain of the when, or the since, just that now it seemed I hated him less and admired him more. In the back of my mind, I knew it was just another way to manipulate me into doing what he wanted. I knew it, but I had yet to give him anything of such importance that it could drastically change the outcome of my timeline. Of what I knew to have happened in the past, his future._

 _There was no rhyme or reason to whatever feelings I was developing towards the Dark Lord, but they were developing and I didn't know if I was as upset about them as I should be. He invaded my dreams most nights now. The handsome, human version that had been teaching for four years, and sometimes the serpentine version that I had seen fall at the Battle of Hogwarts, and sometimes a mixture of both. The handsome, human features of Riddle with slitted, glowing scarlet eyes, and no nose, but still human in appearance. And I always woke up with an uncomfortable throbbing between my legs, and my knickers were always damp and slightly sticky. I had wondered if Riddle actually was "invading" my dreams, but I refused to confront him about it because it was too embarrassing to ask if it was just my imagination running the show. I kept it to myself, and I didn't ponder on it when he was around._

 _My feet were carrying me towards the Restricted Section, and I could suddenly feel that it was Voldemort calling me to him. Hidden through the fog condensing through those rows of shelves, obscured from my sight, but it felt like him. I was positive it was him. I just knew it._

 _I was so close to the gate-like doors of the Restricted Section, so close to reaching him when the silhouette of someone stepped in my way, blocking my path. I tried to move around him, but he moved closer and took hold of my arms to push me several steps back. I could tell it was male, just by the outline and how tall he was. Now, face-to-face as the back of my legs collided with a table, I could see it was Remus. And behind him emerged Tonks and Dumbledore,and Professor McGonagall, and...Sirius Black? What were they all doing here, and why were they blocking me from meeting Riddle in the fog? This was my dream wasn't it? Why weren't they elsewhere?_

 _And then a thought crossed my mind as I remembered what Harry briefly told Ron and I about when he died. My eyes widened as I stared at Remus, and then everyone else behind him. They were all dead, except for Professor McGonagall. Unless she had died since my disappearance? No, she couldn't have. She was so strong, so willful. McGonagall couldn't possibly be dead. This had to be just a dream, this couldn't be some limbo between alive and dying. Or some intervention to save her soul from the Dark Lord, which started to sum up the vibe I was getting off of Remus._

" _Am I dead?" I asked, looking around and then back to Remus, whose sad eyes made me panic. "I'm dying? No," I was starting to hyperventilate already. This wasn't a good sign, was it? "I can't...I can't be dying, Remus, I can't! It's a dream, right? It's just a dream! I was fine, I'm fine..."_

 _There were more ghosts appearing out of the fog, faces I recognized and would never have thought would be staring at me, worried. Especially Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy. Nor would I thought I would meet Harry's parents, or Sirius' brother, Regulus._

 _Had I been fucking drugged?!_

 _And then there was the overwhelming sensation of Voldemort - or Riddle - in my body, begging me to come to him. Join him, help him, be with him. Such sweet words in my head, how could I resist? I wanted to go to him. Riddle was all I had known for the last four years. I couldn't give him a reason to leave me all alone. I didn't want to be all alone, I couldn't handle it. I had to go to him, I had to._

 _Pulling my arms in Remus' grasp, I shoved at his chest in the hopes of dislodging him long enough to run for the Restricted Section. I wanted to go to the Dark Lord, what was their bloody problem? They were all dead, right? So why weren't they off enjoying peace and tranquility - or something - in their afterlife. Didn't the "beyond" have shuffle-board or something to keep them busy? Or Exploding Snap tournaments? Or, in Dumbledore's case, a fountain the rained candy down upon soft, fluffy clouds? Why couldn't they all bugger off and leave me to do what I pleased? It was my dream after all._

" _Miss Granger," said McGonagall, giving me her sternest look yet as I tried to break free from Remus. "I thought you were stronger than this. My star pupil, and here you're choosing Voldemort over returning to your friends. I'm disappointed, Hermione."_

" _He's all I have left," I said, managing to pull one arm free from Remus. I was frantic, and I didn't know why it was so important to get to Riddle quickly. I just knew that he needed me. Now. "He needs me. Can't you feel it? He needs me!"_

" _It's but a trick, Miss Granger," Dumbledore chimed in. His eyes were soft and sad as he stepped closer behind Remus, Tonks and McGonagall and Sirius at his back. They all looked concerned. They all looked as if what was happening was a tremendous tragedy. They were acting like I_ _ **was**_ _dying. "There is a reason he chose you. And there is a reason you are beginning to feel such a strong bond to him. Can you not feel the difference? Can you not see what has changed?"_

 _Bellatrix was cackling, I think to herself, as she listened to all the people pleading with me to "see." I still didn't know what she, or Lucius Malfoy, was doing here in my dream. Unless this really was limbo, and I really was dying in the reality of my mirror prison. If that was the case, I still didn't know why they were here, or what capacity they were here in. Why did everything have to be so confusing at a time like this?_

" _Hermione, you're blinding yourself," said Remus, eyes pleading with me as he held me firm to keep me from struggling. "You have to fight the pull. Think! You're the brightest witch of your age, Hermione! Think! What is different?"_

" _She won't figure it out in time," added Bellatrix, sauntering around the group already blocking me from the Restricted Section, sobered up and serious. She smirked when I eyed her nervously, looking for any sign of a wand in her hands. "The Dark Lord chose her a long time ago and she still can't remember. It will be too late when it clicks into place. Wittle mudblood isn't so bright now, is she?"_

 _Lucius scoffed, staying where he was, "Don't enjoy it so much, Bella. The mudblood has been outsmarting our side for years. She'll figure it out if she wants to."_

" _Hermione, you're not seeing the loss," said Tonks, placing a hand on Remus' shoulder and peering over it to meet my gaze. "Harry and Ron, they need you."_

" _They need you to be strong," said Lily, almost pleadingly. "Sweetheart, you cannot give in. I know the pull is strong, but if you could just see the problem the connection would shatter. You have to look for the sign, Hermione. Please, don't desert your friends. They've meant so much to you for so long."_

" _You have such a pure heart," added Sirius solemnly. "Don't let him take that from you."_

 _I shook my head, struggling against Remus with renewed fervor. He gripped my arms tightly and shook me, growling as I protested, "You're dying, Hermione! Can't you see it? He's draining you! Where have you seen this before?! Think of Harry! Think of your first year at Hogwarts!"_

" _Let go of me! I am not dying!" I choked, feeling a clenching around my chest that proved otherwise. "I'm not dying!"_

" _You are perfectly right, Granger," the smooth, sultry sound of Riddle's voice drifted through the fog. There was a pause as everyone looked back at the closed off Restricted Section, watching the outline of Riddle slowly come forth until we could see him clearly. He was a mixture of past and future again; no nose, red glowing eyes, but the same humanly pale skin and that head full of gorgeous hair. "You are not dying. This is just a dream. If you want them gone, all you have to do is wish it so. As it is, I would not trust them. They are only worried about Harry, can you not see? They are lying to you in order to keep you on their side, to help Harry. The boy who always chose Ron over you, even when your friends were fighting. Always leaving you behind until they need something from you."_

" _I'm always alone," I whispered, thinking back and realizing he spoke the truth, in a way. Even when Harry and Ron were fighting, neither of them hung around me much. I've always been a second-rate friend to them, always the last resort unless they needed their coursework "checked," because they knew I would get fed up and pretty much write it for them. And even when they were around, I was alone. The realization brought tears to my eyes, "Always alone..."_

" _Voldemort is using you, Hermione," growled Remus, shaking me again to make me look away from Riddle. "Don't let him turn you away from who truly care! Don't let him taint you!"_

" _But he's right," I snapped back, pushing Remus away and moving to the side until the table behind me wasn't a corner I could be backed into again. I was angry now, angrier than I had ever been in my life. And confused. Who to believe? Who to choose? Part of me didn't want to know the answer, and the other half knew perfectly well who I was going to choose in the end. It didn't make me any less mad. "You all are telling me to think of Harry, think of Ron. What about me? 'Think of yourself, Hermione,' is that so hard to say? Or am I just second-rate to you, like I am to Harry? You want me to be there for Harry and Ron, but who has ever been there for me?! I am tired of being the one who saves the day because no one else knows how!"_

" _That is only the tip of the iceberg, Granger," grinned Riddle, eyes flashing darkly as I put a bit of distance between myself and the dead. "You have been looked over long enough. Let them know how they praised Potter for your work, your intellect, your quick wit."_

 _And I did. I screamed it at them all, at the top of my lungs and until my vocals chords hurt. The rush I felt at unleashing seven years of pent up frustration and anger was cleansing. I felt as though I was purging all the negativity from my body that I had been holding on to for far too long. By the time I finished, breathless and panting, everyone had faded away, but Voldemort remained. He was holding out his hand, an amused glint in his scarlet eyes and I put my hand in his without hesitation. He may be using me like everyone else always had, and I knew he was - I was acutely aware of the fact that he was - but at least he wasn't lying to me about it. I didn't know what the purpose behind it was, but I knew he wouldn't deny it if I asked if I was just a pawn in his plans._

 _The fog had disappeared, and Riddle was pulling me to him, slowly and ever so sensual. I wanted to ask what he was up to, what this act was all about, but my voice seemed to have gotten lost. I was too busy staring at his lips. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to kiss me, snog me. I wanted him to take me, to shove me against one of these shelves and ravish me like in the other dreams I had had that featured him heavily. To feel him against me, in me, and I wanted it now. Now! It was so unlike me. I was the girl who took things slow. For Merlin's sake, it had taken six years for me to get up the nerve to kiss Ron! I had never been this girl, the wanton girl with urgency and demands. And I knew, in that moment, that I_ _ **had**_ _changed. And I didn't mind that I had changed. My hand in his, it felt right. The anticipation made something clench deep inside me. Something warm that sent a rush of electricity through me and made me shiver. Something that made me feel as though I was burning with desire._

 _I wanted Voldemort._

 _Badly._

" _Join me, Hermione," he whispered, almost a hiss as he slid a finger down my cheek. "Stay with me..."_

 _The front of me was pressed against him, and he was so much taller than me than I realized. He chest was muscled and firm underneath his robes, his fingertip feather soft against my cheek. I shivered. It was involuntary, but it felt amazing to do as his fingers slipped to the back of my head. He tangled them in the frizzy mess that was my bun, pulling tight and yanking back until my neck was exposed. I think I whimpered, because I had never felt anything like this before. Ron had never incited such a response from me, but then again we had only kissed in the heat of battle. This was raw, unadulterated pleasure running from my scalp down to my toes. It was scorching hot and easily addictive, and I wanted more. I was done for, I already knew it, so why not enjoy it? This was a dream, after all._

 _My eyes were closed, but I could feel his breath against my skin as his face lowered to meet my lips. His mouth brushed against mine, and I inhaled sharply at the sensation. I could feel him smirking, enjoying the responses he was getting out of me, but at this point I didn't even care. He was pulling me closer, lips bruising mine, because we were both too anxious for something more powerful than a soft little kiss to test waters. It was heated enough that Riddle was guiding me backwards, our mouths still connected, until I was shoved up against some shelves. It was hard enough that several books fell to the floors, but neither of us noticed, or neither of us cared._

 _A hand wrapped around my throat, holding me in place as Riddle ran his tongue along my lower lip, biting down on it and wrenching another pathetic whimper out of me. His tongue plunged forward with ease, dominating me because I was too lost in the sensation of it all to fight back. I wanted it too badly, and he knew it. He was thoroughly enjoying how easy it was in this dream world, compared to how difficult I would be in reality._

 _The hand around my throat squeezed, cutting off some of my airway and making me gasp around Riddle's tongue. I could feel his lower half pressing hard against me, rigid and flexing beneath his robes. Having never done anything quite like this in real life, I was surprised at how excited and scared I was. It was thrilling, letting go of all my inhibitions because I could. This wasn't real, I could do anything I wanted. And what I wanted was for this to not stop, because Riddle's hand was unzipping the back of my dress. His fingers caressing the soft skin underneath. His hand pushing further until he reached my -_

I woke with a shuddered breath and a whimper that caught in my throat. The ache between my legs was apparent, as was the wetness that always accompanied these dreams. I groaned, completely forgetting about the beginning, the warnings from the dead. I just wanted to go back to sleep and pick up where I'd left off...


	6. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

It was dark in my room as I jerked awake from the dream. Another dream that I could not remember once my eyes opened. The dim light from the dying embers in the library fireplace bounced off the reflective floors and walls of my prison to give me an idea of my surroundings, but not much else. It was unnaturally warm as I rose from under the sheets, toes touching the smooth glass-like floor tentatively before I made the move to stand. I was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, my heart was still racing from the dream I couldn't remember, and I could feel _his_ eyes following me, but where he was lurking I didn't know. It was confusing, and enthralling, as I placed my feet carefully one in front of the other.

Ten years.

I had literally been living in a mirror for _ten bloody years_.

I had read almost every book in the vast library, taken notes until my fingers bled, learned more from Voldemort's younger self than any number of teachers during my time at Hogwarts, and had been tortured more than I cared to admit. And yet, I was still sane, and still standing.

My spare time was spent at the only way out of this cage. The mirror within the mirror, I called it, even though it was a glass wall. I sit on the floor and look through at the Voldemort I had known from my own time. I watch him heal, or watched him, heal. He used to be a ghostly image hovering over a stone altar. Now he's completely solid, and looking incredibly normal compared to the serpentine visage that supposedly died during the Final Battle in my timeline, but still incredibly the same. I think the wizarding world had burned the body, because he had pieced himself back together with ashes and bits of bone. A grey statue turned flesh. Like a phoenix, he was rising from the ashes, in a sense. To be born anew. And I have been watching the progression for the last ten years. The healing, the rise and fall of his chest; the breath of life and color in his bone-white complexion. I was certain if he were to open those eyes they would still glow a scarlet red, but he was still beautiful to look upon when I was alone.

I knew that my research in the first few years had been pieces of a puzzle that Riddle was using to keep his future self alive, to heal and restore him. There was something I was being kept in the dark about, something to do with how Voldemort had survived his final encounter with Harry Potter, but I wasn't going to bother asking. I would get no answer, so why risk another ten seconds of that torture curse Riddle so loved to use on me? Ten years was enough time to learn how to act under a Dark Lord's rule. I had given up trying to escape years ago, this was my home now. And to be honest, I didn't want to leave. I had books and I was too dependent on what Riddle still had left to teach me. I was being greedy, yes, but there was so much left unlearned. This was an honor I didn't want to give up, and he knew it. That's why he taught me, to keep me hooked and interested. Knowledge was my weakness, and after so many years it was easy to let go of my defiance and stubbornness in order to soak up all that the Dark Lord had to offer.

Really, I just wanted to look upon his face. Three months was far too long to go between lessons. He was usually far more frequent, and far more punctual, to be gone for so long. It was clockwork, every Wednesday he arrived and berated me on my research, or my "coursework" and then he would insult me through the correct approach - his approach - to doing things. Yes, he was incredibly derogatory in his statements regarding me and my muggle heritage, but the chance to learn from him far outweighed the sting of his sharp tongue. I still wanted to be the best, brightest witch of my age, and to study under Riddle was a dream come true to a scholar such as myself. His intelligence was something no one had seen since Albus Dumbledore. To listen to Tom Riddle explain such things that shattered the boundaries and limitations of magic, and wizarding nature, was truly remarkable. And, of course, I absorbed it like a sponge. I took his abuse because one day it would all be worth it. I may be learning vast new subjects no one would dare to tread, but I was also searching for any possible clue as how to destroy him, once and for all.

Although, saying that just now, it felt like a lie. I didn't want to leave my cage, because I was comfortable now, but also because I didn't want to leave the Dark Lord, either of them. Even though I missed my parents and sunshine on my face and laying on freshly mown grass to read at my leisure, I had changed. I had feelings for Lord Voldemort, and I knew how ridiculous that sounded. In my head it even sounded utterly asinine, but it was the truth. He challenged me, and I liked it. He was a stimulating conversationalist without trying, and I liked it. I was aware he was a murderer and dangerous, and possibly certifiably insane, but I still liked it. I liked him. Not love him, never love him, because he is evil and he is the Dark Lord, he doesn't know or understand love. He was extremely intelligent and breathtakingly handsome, and having only him for small periods of social interaction for ten years was enough to manifest some form of feelings toward him. He was still Lord Voldemort, but it didn't mean I couldn't fantasize about him. My thoughts had started drifting years ago, from hatred to imagining his lips on my own and how it would feel to have him pressed against the front of me. What it would be like if he were to reach across the space between us and brush a frizzy curl back behind my ear. Would I shiver? Probably. Would he notice? Yes. It seemed impossible to think he hadn't witnessed the vulgar path my mind had taken when I was around him. Stray thoughts that got away from me before I could recite _Hogwarts: A History_ to keep him out of my head. It was impossible to think he had not noticed the way I chew on the end of my quill as I try desperately to focus on the book in front of me. In fact, it seemed as though he went out of his way to make me blush.

From the bedroom to the only exit out of my prison, my feet had guided me to the glass barrier that kept me inside. The surface was hard and smooth until I pressed my palm to the wall. The surface rippled like a pebble in a pond until it showed me the image of my timeline's Voldemort, sleeping soundly still. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to press my lips against those pale, thin ones of his. Would they be cold and lifeless? Or would my touch breathe more life into him than all my research combined? I had this silly question in my head of if I were to escape this prison and lean over him, press my mouth to his, would he awaken like Sleeping Beauty? It was a ridiculous notion, but I could not stop myself from wondering. If I had learned anything from Riddle in the last ten years, it was that the laws of magic were only restrictions. Once the boundaries were shattered, a kiss could definitely bring this Voldemort back to life.

It should feel wrong to have these thoughts, I'm painstakingly aware of the fact, but I don't feel as though they're wrong, at all. Daydreaming about kissing the Dark Lord didn't feel dark and unnatural. It felt as though it was incredibly natural. And the dreams I had been having weren't exactly pure, either. Riddle doesn't help matters, though. Always finding a way to touch me, hover over my shoulder and graze his chin across the top of my frizzy head; that's exactly what he did these days. There had been numerous moments over the last fives years of being close enough to touch my lips to his. Those moments had proven to be effective fuel to the fire that burned pleasantly inside of me. The almost kisses pushed my dreams further and further; more touching, more snogging, more skin exposed. It was what I lingered on when I wasn't so involved with my studies. The almost-moments and my studies, those were what had kept me going for so long.

"I can feel you in the shadows," I said, still watching the rise and fall of the comatose Voldemort's chest through the barrier. "I can feel you watching me."

Suddenly Riddle was directly behind me. I could feel the warmth of his breath against the nape of my neck. It caused a shiver to run down my spine, and I was itching to take a step back to feel his firmness. I restrained myself, though. I always held back, just like he did. It was just how he and I were; too logical, too hesitant. And with Riddle, he was also very calculating. I understood that if he ever did lean in and snog me proper, it would be for an underlying reason. Or I would have so infuriated him it happened out of impulse, without any logical thought behind it. Sometimes I thought of pushing him until he leaned in so close out of anger that all I had to do was rise up onto my toes and cut off his insults with my mouth against his. It sounded titillating in my head, but I was thoroughly aware it would not end the same in reality. I would probably end up on the floor, screaming and scratching myself to bloody shreds. It was a lovely scenario to play out in daydreams though.

I could feel him smirking behind me.

"You shivered, mudblood."

A breath stuck in my chest as his fingers touched my shoulder, following the line of my arm down to my wrist. His hand covered mine, keeping it pressed against the barrier. He moved my other arm up, pressing that hand to the barrier as well. Leaning in over my shoulder, Riddle breathed across my ear and I could sense he was waiting for my cheeks to flush. Other than his hands over mine, he wasn't touching me. He wanted to see me squirm, and I was trying not to give him any satisfaction. It was hard, considering this is Tom Riddle and his hands feel amazing over mine, but I fought the blush as long as possible. I even recited passages from _A History of Magic_ to calm down the heat rushing through me.

"What scandalous thoughts are you attempting to hide from me, Hermione?"

There was a soft chuckle in his voice. It was his I-know-exactly-what-you're-thinking-about chuckle. I hated the chuckle. It was smarmy.

"Is there something you need?" I asked, voice a bit shaky. It made him smirk more, I could feel him grinning at my struggle.

"You watch him more than I realized," Riddle whispered, and I was aware that it was intentional, the way he did it. That sensual tone laced with a hint of curiosity. "You look at him differently than you do me."

"He's unconscious," I said, voice more firm and I was thankful for that. "It's not like _he_ can torture me for staring...Is there something you needed?"

"Your time with me is ending," he replied, hands pressing down on mine as a tension gripped him. "He will be taking over once I wake him."

I swallowed hard and wet my lips, "How?"

"How will I wake him?" Riddle sounded too amused, but I wanted the answer so I held my tongue. I wouldn't get the answer if I made a snide comment regarding the enjoyment he experience because I hadn't figured it out yet. He chuckled again, that chuckle I despised, and let a long, hot breath out over my ear. I could feel his lips just barely grazing against the outward curve of that ear, and it set the skin on fire. I was proud of myself of the fact that, even with my ear burning and tingling from that lightest of touches, I still hadn't flushed with desire. I just nodded to answer his question, and waited for his response. "First, you will retrieve him for me. Then I will give you an idea of... _how_ I plan on waking him."

The way he said it was deliciously sinister. Almost a breathy hiss and the low baritone of it flowed over my skin and made something deep inside me clench tight. It was a pleasurable sound, so pleasurable. If he used that tone every time he spoke to me it was a fairly accurate assumption that I would have given in a bloody hell of alot sooner. I would have been lulled under the spell of his voice and I probably would not have been aware that I was handing over so much vital information. I would have been powerless against him, even being aware of how lethal he is wouldn't have been enough to save me from this tone of voice. It was sinful and inciting and scintillating, all wrapped up in one intoxicatingly handsome vessel.

Riddle, chuckling next to my ear, moved his hands from mine to press his palms flat against the glass barrier keeping me inside this prison. The surface gave way and rippled outward, and my hands slowly pushed through. Passing Riddle's, his stayed pressed against an invisible force, and soon I was a swirl of particles, expanding and enlarging, until I was my old, normal self; not a doll in height, trapped in an odd little house with no way out. And now I was out, and all I could think of was what Riddle had told me what I would do. He gave me the instructions without actually giving me the instructions. He was confident in whatever loyalties he suspected I had in regards to him, and I could not dispute his reasoning. Six months after my initial imprisonment in the mirror I had given up on my escape attempts, because he was teaching me. I was comfortable with the routine, the education I was receiving, because there was no one else in the wizarding world as intelligent as Tom Riddle now. Dumbledore was dead, and quite honestly, I doubted he would have taught me anything while he regarded Harry as the center of the universe. In my mirror, with only books and parchment and knowledge, I could pretend that I was the center of someone's attention. That someone was taking the time to mold me, help me to advance, and Harry wouldn't charge in and steal it away.

Funny how enough time passes and I can clearly see the biased dynamics of our little trio. How Ron and I were treated, compared to Harry, especially if we - not Harry - had solved the puzzle, created the solid foundation for the Chosen One to save the day. McGonagall wasn't even entirely unbiased. There was blatant favoritism at times regarding Harry, when it came to the professors at Hogwarts. There was only one teacher I could remember, who was honest in his treatment towards the students. The reason, I have started to believe, behind Snape's attitude towards Gryffindors was completely honest. He viewed all Gryffindors as vicious little James Potters and Sirius Blacks. And the only reason he was less harsh on the Slytherins was due to his affiliations with those students' Death Eater parents. He had a reputation to uphold, a persona to keep solid in case the Dark Lord ever returned. And Harry Potter? Snape was nothing but honest in his attitude towards Harry. I could understand the hostility, because Harry did resemble his parents. It had to have been difficult looking at an eleven year old boy and seeing the classmate that terrorized Snape for seven years. And painful to see the love of his life's eyes staring at him constantly, and accusingly.

But enough about Snape and Harry and never being acknowledged.

I was outside of my prison, and I was acutely aware of the fact that I could flee. I could kill the sleeping Voldemort and run. Riddle could not stop me. He couldn't pass through into his future without damaging the past. It was one rule he hadn't even tried to ignore. He was very aware of how much damage could be done if he tried. That was why he had spent so much time over the last ten years trying to get me to slip up and divulge little pieces of information here and there. Those were the times I was reciting details about the Goblin Wars, and trying extremely hard to not think about anything that could give him a glimpse of the future to come.

Free. I was free, and all I could do was take tentative steps towards the stone altar. The hybrid version of the serpentine Voldemort and Riddle hovering over the stone looked just as breathtaking to me. He was entrancing, so peaceful in sleep that I couldn't look away. I wanted to lean over him. I wanted to feel his breath flow over my cheek. I wanted to see if it was warm and smelled like spearmint, like Riddle's did. I wanted to see his features up close and personal. I wanted to touch his hand without it recoiling. He was vulnerable and unaware, I could take liberties, couldn't I? It wasn't as if I was going to molest him in any way, I just wanted to see if he felt as warm as he looked. I didn't think it was creepy. It was a viable curiosity.

Blinking, I shook the fuzz from my head and looked around the cave. It didn't look like what Harry described, and I couldn't hear the waves crashing against the rocks. It smelled of soil and trees and damp, not sea spray and cold. Was this the cave in Albania? The one he hid in for over a decade in total after Harry defeated him as a baby? Was this the same cave? It looked to be more spacious than I thought it would be. Though, he must have felt this place was a sanctuary because he had taken the time to ward it, and decorate. Somewhat.

There were torches alight along the walls, burning blue and I knew those flames intimately. Bluebell flames, forever burning and safe enough to leave because they wouldn't spread. There were silver, glass and bronze objects in shelves that had been carved into the cave walls. Nothing gold though, which was odd, but who was I to question what the Dark Lord hid in here? Right? Then there were was the familiar object encased in glass case. It reminded me of Beauty and the Beast, the rose on the pedestal that counted down the time to when the Beast's curse would turn permanent. I stepped away from the stone altar and closed the distance between myself and the object in the glass dome. It was incredibly familiar to me, and I couldn't place it. As I neared, I could see it better and yet I still could not place where I knew this object from. It was a ring; white gold with small rubies and emeralds surrounding an understated diamond. It was old, extremely old, and I remembered that it used to be my great, great grandmother's ring. It looked more worn and older than I remembered it being. My mother had given it to me on my sixteenth birthday, but I had never worn it. I had kept it in the velvet box it had originally been bought in and stuffed it down in my little beaded bag. I remembered the many times I pulled it out at night and wished my mother was there. To bore me with the story about how my great, great grandfather had proposed to my great, great grandmother with this ring. And how she turned him down at first because she thought it was ugly. Now I would like nothing more than to listen to my mother tell me the story again, but my parents were gone. I took their memories and there was no getting them back. There was no getting my parents back.

The ring glinted in the dim light, and I was still confused as to _how_ it came to be encased in glass on a white stone pedestal in the middle of a cave in Albania.

"Granger, I do not have all day," Riddle's voice echoed out from the mirror. "Retrieve the body and return to the mirror."

Ten years ago, I would have defied him for his tone. Now I just blinked and returned to the Voldemort hovering over the altar. I could have run - I should run - but I was curious. I wanted to know how this Voldemort would be awakened. I knew I should take this opportunity to save myself, but I just had to know. I had to see it for myself. It was almost a compulsion, to know the how and the rest of the details. I wanted to see it with my own eyes, witness it, because when would I ever get the chance again? I was probably going to be killed, or trapped in my cage for the rest of my life as Voldemort's pet mudblood, but bloody hell, _I had to know_.

I leaned over the comatose Voldemort, examining his noseless visage and finding him just as handsome as Riddle. What was wrong with me that I found this serpentine image attractive? I couldn't possibly proved an answer, but I could memorize these features from this close a distance as possible before I angered Riddle with my dilly-dallying. I just wanted to see. Just for a moment.

His skin was cool under my fingertips, not cold but not warm either. Just cool to the touch. He had eyelashes, something I had never seen from my place in the mirror. Short, black eyelashes that added to the handsome, snake-like features of his face. The lips were thin and pale, and his breath coming out in slow, shallow puffs was warm against my face. I could feel his heart beating underneath my palm. A strong _thump, thump, thump_ that made it all real for me. Voldemort was really alive. He had actually survived death three times. Wait - when Harry was a baby, when Harry sacrificed himself in the Forbidden Forest, the Final Battle. Yes, three times. How could he have survived after all his horcruxes were-

I realized it before I finished that thought. Horcruxes. Dumbledore and Harry had said there were seven. What if there had been a seventh before Harry had become a horcrux when he was a baby? What if this cave was the hiding place for the original seventh horcrux? Dumbledore had been wrong. So wrong, all along. And the fact that the Dark Lord had been able to keep his original seventh horcrux unknown to Dumbledore, it was amazing. I was actually in awe. The Dark Lord had trumped Albus Dumbledore, and the old wizard wasn't even around to have it rubbed in his face. Harry would never see Voldemort coming this time. It was over. It was so over for the Order, because the Dark Lord would come swiftly and with such vengeance. It was literally jaw-dropping.

Leaning over the hovering body of Voldemort, I took in the soft and peaceful look upon his face before closing the distance. I pressed a gentle kiss to his thin lips. My hand splayed over his cheek, cupping it ever so slightly, and I could feel a warmth spread through him. His lips had always been slightly parted, and I breathed into him. Another wave of warmth flowed through him, turning his cheeks a pale pink. I couldn't help but smile as I pulled away, flicking my wand with a whispered spell and watching him float from the altar to the mirror. I was still overwhelmingly impressed with Riddle, and how great the lengths were he had taken to ensure his survival. Eight horcruxes were extremely dangerous, and volatile, to have made, but in all seriousness, how could anyone not be impressed? I should be disgusted with myself, because I knew the friends I had known were going to die. The traitors to Voldemort, the Order of the Phoenix - so many wizarding folk - were going to suffer. They were all going to die, and all I could be was in awe of the Dark Lord's brilliance.

What had happened to me?

I was confused as we both exploded into whirlwinds of particles and entered my mirror. Riddle was nowhere to be seen when the unconscious Voldemort and I materialized. Though, I could hear the echo of running water through the mirror and assumed I knew where I was supposed to go. I hovered the comatose Voldemort in front of me as I followed the sound of the bath filling. It struck me as odd how easily I was changing sides. How easily my allegiance to Harry had withered and died, only to be replaced by an allegiance to the Dark Lord. Funny how these things happen. After ten years, I didn't even feel guilty about the inevitability that I was betraying everyone I had ever known. I should, but I didn't. I felt as though I wanted to, but I couldn't connect with that part of myself anymore. Knowledge and advancement and the Dark Lord was all I could care about.

There was a green glow reflecting off of the surfaces outward from the bathroom. It was eerie and made the hairs on the nape of my neck stand straight, but I maneuvered the serpentine Voldemort through the archway in front of me anyway. I wasn't going to show my nerves, I wasn't going to show weakness. Besides, I doubted I would be able to leave this mirror without a bit of Riddle's help. I had chosen to stay. This was the path I wanted to take, and I could not back out. I would not back out.

Not now.

The green glow was emanating from the small pool that was the in-ground bath. Somewhere in the center of it, under the water, something was glowing green and sinister. I stood there, staring because I couldn't figure out what was under the water. It was illuminating the steam coming off the bath, creating a presence even more eerie than before. I felt as though I should send the floating form of Voldemort to hover over the green light, whatever it was.

Strange thing, this scenario in front of me. I distinctly remembered Harry painting a picture similar to this one after his trip with Dumbledore to retrieve Slytherin's locket. I briefly wondered what it was about glowing green things in the middle of bodies of water, inside caves, that Riddle enjoyed so much. It was starting to become a theme in his horcrux hiding places, didn't it?

"I knew you would follow through..."

I gasped.

Riddle was behind me, a hand on each of my shoulders as his breath flowed over the nape of my neck. It sent shivers down my spine, and goosebumps rose over my arms. He was using that tone again; the low baritone that was smooth and seductive and sinful. It enveloped me completely, creating a heat that burst in my skin and rushed through my entire body. Like a sizzling electric jolt that struck hard at first and then slowly built up the temperature. I hadn't even felt him in the shadows. Not even his eyes watching my every movement. It was like he hadn't been there at all and just spontaneously appeared. How was that even possible? Why was I even asking that question? Anything was possible when it came to Riddle. Nothing was impossible with him. It all came to him so easily, like a second nature. As easy as breathing. And even that he did with masculine grace.

Riddle's grip on my shoulders tightened, and I could feel him smirking at my reaction to him, "Why are you still dressed, mudblood?" He leaned down to breathe against my ear without touching it, "Remove your clothes and join me."

The hands released my shoulders and Riddle walked around me towards the bath. His skin glowed pale and green and perfect. It mesmerized me until I realized that I could _see_ his skin, _all of his skin_.

"Oh...M-mer-Merlin," I gasped, stuttering as I took in the glorious curve of his backside before covering my mouth and turning away from the sight. "You're...You...You are naked! Oh, Merlin...you're completely nude! Are you aware that you have no clothes on?"

He snickered in a snarky way, "I am very aware that I have no clothes on, Granger. Get undressed and join me. I will not repeat myself again..."


	7. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

I, Hermione Granger, had never seen a specimen of the male species in the nude. Never. I hadn't even looked it up - out of curiosity - in a book. So, to see the Dark Lord, before he was the snake-like version I had seen in battle, completely naked was astonishing and the extreme opposite of what I thought hid under those clothes. And as astonishing as it was, to see the Dark Lord's bare backside, it was also intimidating on a much higher level. I was in the presence of a naked man - and he was most definitely a man - and I was expected to strip down in front of him. It was beyond my comfort zone, being virginal and unlearned in the ways of what men and women did behind closed doors.

Well, I _knew_ , but I had never personally witnessed or participated in the acts myself.

Looking around, I was stuck and I knew it. I couldn't flee now, and there were no partitions to block me from view as I removed my clothes. Embarrassment burned in my cheeks as I hesitantly unzipped the back of my dress. Riddle was waist deep in the bath, watching me with interest as I slowly pulled my dress over my head and dropped it on the floor. I had never been provided a bra since I had woken up in this mirror, so of course my chest was visible. Shoes had never been provided either, so I didn't have any to remove. I just had the emerald satin knickers that I had fallen asleep in left to remove. With an arm covering my chest, I wiggled the knickers down with my free hand. I was aware of how innocent and clumsy I looked with my legs crossed in an attempt to hide my nakedness, and trying to pull my knickers down my legs far enough to step out of them. I stumbled as I moved towards the bath, which only increased my embarrassment as Riddle chuckled at me. Bent over, one arm over my small chest and one arm blocking my most intimate of areas, with my legs crossed to help cover me up; yes, I could see the hilarity of my modesty.

Reaching the edge of the bath, I dipped a foot in to test the water. The steam rising from the surface gave me an idea of how hot the water was going to be. It scalded my foot in hundreds of searing stings, turning the skin bright pink in the split second my foot was submerged before I withdrew it quickly. Riddle was expecting me to wade into near boiling water without any clothes on? Was he delusional? Wait, I already knew the answer to that.

Gritting my teeth, I took the steps down into the bath quickly. It was better to get it over with and take the initial shock, instead of trying to withstand the onslaught of my skin burning if I inched into the water. I moved towards Riddle swiftly, not wanting to hesitate and feel the scalding water blister my skin. When I reached him, the water was level with my breasts, but I covered them with my arms anyway. He was regarding me with dark eyes, giving nothing away as I tried to read him. Riddle, with that handsomely blank face, merely reached out and pulled my arms away from my chest. My wand was still clutched in my fist. I refused to let it leave my grasp.

"Your modesty is unbecoming in this situation, mudblood," he said, turning towards the center of the bath and began wading towards the floating future version of himself. "Stand at his feet and place your wand to the side. Do not ask questions."

In this situation, while I was completely exposed to an equally nude man, I wasn't going to question his instructions. I would try to figure out what he was having me do, the meaning behind it, silently. I would keep it to myself and theorize, but while I was naked as a jaybird there would be no inquiries. Only if I knew it was necessary, for me. This was the Dark Lord, both of him, and I didn't trust him. Not even as far as I could throw either of him. I was obedient, to a point.

I knew my situation. I knew I had no other option other than follow Riddle's instructions, because I couldn't leave. I was here, and I had chosen this. Hermione Granger did not get cold feet, and I would not start reconsidering now. There was too much at stake, and so much left I had yet to learn. I could do this, even if I was acutely aware of the fact that I may die. Today, or eventually. And that it may be at the hands of the Dark Lord, but that was a gamble I was willing to take. I was already almost certain it was an inevitability. I was just getting as much as I could out of Riddle before it happened. It seemed a tragedy to not learn as much as possible before death. And I still had so many books that I hadn't read yet. I've never been a religious sort, but to leave books unread? Well, that was just blasphemy.

Wading through the scalding bath water, I did as Riddle instructed. I stood at Voldemort's feet, his body resting on what looked like a surgical table made of clear glass. I laid my wand next to one of the ornate, clear bowls lining the edges of the glass table and waited for Riddle to give me further direction. He had flicked his wand about, here and there, vanishing Voldemort's clothes and summoning forth the tools and ingredients for whatever we were about to do. I focused on watching Riddle, because I was too embarrassed to focus on Voldemort. He was naked. I could see everything. Everything.

It made my cheeks burn bright red just knowing Voldemort was so exposed.

Riddle moved methodically, positioning everything perfectly and to his preferences. I wish I could understand his pathology, the way his mind worked to create such brilliance the likes of which the wizarding world was too afraid to understand. He would only ever be feared, never praised. It saddened me.

"Do you understand why one does not age in a pocket between times?" asked Riddle. He was finished with the preparations, and was wading over with a glistening blade in one hand. He stood behind me, water lapping around us from his movement and I could feel how close he was to me. Not enough to touch, but enough for me to feel the minute gap between our bodies. Our very naked bodies.

I nodded, having trouble finding my voice to answer, "Ye-Yes."

"Yes, what?"

Bloody hell, he was going to make me say it.

"Yes, my Lord."

He took a step and closed the distance between us to press his front into my back. Leaning over my shoulder he used that entrancing tone as he spoke near my ear, "Good girl, Hermione...Now, I want you to explain it as you straddle him."

I was trembling. And I couldn't tell if it was from anticipation or fear. He wanted me to straddle his naked future self, and then explain something I had known since researching Time Turners before my third year at Hogwarts? What the hell was Riddle up to?

I felt hands on my shoulders turning me around to face Riddle. He was smirking down at me, like the cat who caught the canary. I could _feel_ him against the lower part of my stomach, just above my pelvic area. I was so close to him that it was pressed up against my flesh. I was unable to stop the sharp intake of breath and the flutter of my eyelids, especially as he slid his hands down my arms until they met my hips. That deep place in me, that always clenched when a warm wave a pleasure washed through, clenched more tightly as Riddle's hands slid back over my backside. He stopped just under my cheeks, lifting and pressing me against his firmness unexpectedly. It was one swift movement, or at least that's what it felt like. One swift movement and I was pressed against him with my hands gripping his shoulders for balance. One swift movement and I had his erection cradled against my woman bits - yes, I called my vagina "woman bits." Woman bits that were throbbing by just being this close to the most evil wizard in all of wizarding history.

Yes, I am acutely aware of how incredibly insane that sounded.

I could feel the handle of the blade in his hand pressing into the bottom of my arse cheek as he moved closer to the table. Lifting me higher, Riddle plopped me down over Voldemort's legs. The side of the blade nicked my thigh, slicing through the flesh as if it were air, when Riddle pulled his hands away. I hissed at the sudden pain, but bit my lip to keep a tiny whimper from escaping me. I still had a summary to give while Riddle washed my blood off of the blade. He didn't seem very interested in the fact that he cut me. I was starting to think it was on purpose. And I already knew better than to think he cared at all about another person's well-being, past the obvious of what that person could provide for him. Sometimes I wished I could be that detached from my emotions. Not cold and calculating, but able to separate myself from them more to logically rationalize for a better decision making process. It would be nice to not care so much about everything. I felt it would be a great asset in this moment, so I wasn't painfully aware of the fact that I was straddling a nude Voldemort's legs in front of a watching Riddle. I felt like a virgin sacrifice, and maybe that was exactly what I was. A sacrifice.

"Move up and straddle the waist, Hermione. Make sure to turn around, also. The ritual requires you to face him," said Riddle, taking my wand with him as he moved around the table. "And I have not heard you begin your explanation. Time is wasting."

I almost snorted at the comment, because time was most definitely not wasting in this mirror. Of course, any giggle I may or may not have had to hold back disappeared when Riddle repeated the instruction to straddle Voldemort's hips. Did he not realize there was a.. _.a penis_...between those hips? What kind of ritual was this again? Circe, let it be anything but a sex ritual. Please. Anything but a sex ritual. I really did not want to lose my virginity like this. I wanted to enjoy my first time as much as I could considering the ripping of my hymen and the painful stretching to accommodate something forcing its way into me. I was aware of the details, just not personally experienced. It was a subject I thought I had time to research, because my education came first. After Hogwarts, after I had a career and a house and a life that didn't include being hunted and killed for being muggleborn. I thought that I would lose my virginity on my wedding night, but life has a way of going against what is planned. It takes you down a different path, provides you with options you never even considered while it puts your back against a wall. Life changes everything.

"A...A pocket in between time is a gap...be-between spaces," I started explaining, noticing the smirk pulling at the corner of Riddle's mouth at my nervousness as I turned and crawled up Voldemort's body. I rested my hips on the Dark Lord's waist tenderly, shifting to get comfortable and very aware of what exactly I was shifting over. I was very uncomfortable with this situation right now. Very. Uncomfortable.

And just a bit tingly in places I really didn't want to be tingly in at this moment.

A warmth spread through my body as Riddle examined the blade he had cut me with. He smeared the blood over the shiny metal until both sides were tinted red, blowing on it to dry the blood to the blade. He had moved up the side of the glass table, taking Voldemort's hand and slicing it. He rubbed that blood over the blade as well, mixing it with mine. He was chanting, holding the handle of the blade with it pointing downwards. I didn't understand what he was saying, it sounded like a dead language. I began to understand what it was for when a stronger wave of warm pleasure jolted through me, making me squirm over Voldemort's hips. The apex of my thighs was growing wet, aching and throbbing for something, but I didn't understand what my body was wanting. All I knew was the squirming over Voldemort's hips, against his genitals, was producing extremely pleasant sensations through my loins.

What was I supposed to be doing right now? Oh, yes. The absence of aging in a pocket of time outside of time and relative dimensions ins pace. How was I supposed to concentrate enough to recite a summarized explanation when I was pretty sure I had lost the ability to speak? I didn't know the anticipation would build up and hit me like a trolley. And part of it - alright, most of it - was due to whatever Riddle was chanting. The rest of the anticipation had been hiding in the back of my mind, buried under the embarrassment I had been experiencing because I was naked. Now I didn't even care that I had no clothes on. This pleasure was incredibly addictive and mind consuming. It was all I could think about.

"It, uh, m-makes it a between...a 'tween place, and...uh...uhm, time is non-existent in a 'tw-twee-tween pla-place," I stammered, hips rubbing against Voldemort. I was gasping a little, oblivious to Riddle's approving stare as I placed my palms against Voldemort's abdomen to balance and ground myself. I felt as though if these jolts and waves rushing up through my body were going to lift me up and carry me away. "Time does-doesn't exist. It doesn't...mo-move forward - Oo-o-oh...Circe - Oh my God..."

Merlin's wand, was that an - Is that an _erection_ standing at attention against my arse? It was huge-

"Do you know why you were chosen, Hermione?" prompted Riddle, sprinkling the blade with ashes that stuck to the mixtures of blood, which was still drying.

He wasn't even looking at me, and for that I was grateful. I was already shaking enough from the amazing sensations rippling through my body. It was hard to understand him with the pleasure and the magic working together to make me less reluctant, more willing and pliable. I had to force myself to stop and look at him, body trembling from the ache between my legs. I had to take a moment to think while my head cleared a bit.

He asked if I had figured out how why I was chosen. If I understood the reasoning behind Voldemort's choice in me. I remembered what Riddle had said, vaguely, the day I had woken up in this mirror. That Voldemort had high hopes for me. And the fact that Riddle had taken the time to educate me, it had seemed suspect back then, but now it seemed obvious. He knew knowledge was my weakness, before I ever appeared. Voldemort had told him in a missive about me, which meant he had known everything there was to know about me before I was imprisoned. So what else had made the choice for Voldemort? What made him want me? I was a virgin, a bookworm, frizzy haired know-it-all with highly valuable information about the future, especially regarding Dumbledore and Harry, but no. No, that wasn't the whole picture. There were other reasons I was missing. Things that were so obvious that I wasn't seeing them. There were more and I just couldn't put my finger on -

"Oh God," I exclaimed, another wave of hot, electric pleasure racing through me. Like an aftershock, but more powerful than anything that had hit me previously, but that wasn't what made me yell. Focusing on something nearby, I had noticed my little beaded bag. I had completely forgotten about it.

And then it clicked.

My family's ring was in my little beaded bag. My little beaded bag had been on me when I was sucked into that vortex after the Battle. I hadn't seen my bag in years, ten years. That meant Riddle had ransacked it the second I turned up in that bloody mirror! That bloody, lying, snarky, pain in my arse bastard! The times he had tried to slip me up, it wasn't _for_ the information! It was for confirmation of what he had read in the books I had brought with me _in my little beaded bag_!

How much did he know? Did he know that his horcruxes would be destroyed? That he would be defeated by a one-year-old in a crib? Did he know about fourth year and Pettigrew assisting in the cemetery so he could have an actual body again? That little baby Potter would accidentally become Voldemort's last...

Horcrux.

Horcruxes. Plural. Harry had been the last one, but not the seventh. There had been at least one other before the night that Voldemort lost his body.

Another wave of sizzling pleasure crashed through me as Riddle climbed up onto the glass table behind me, pressing himself into my back. I couldn't stop the moan that escaped me, but my mind was already whizzing around, piecing the puzzle together. Everything that I had missed, or been distracted from was finally falling into place. Everything was starting to make sense, perfect sense.

Horcruxes. My great, great grandmother's ring. Me. The dream I had years ago, the one that Remus and Tonks and Dumbledore and Bellatrix, so many people, had come to me after they had apparently died. They had warned me. They had pleaded with me. See, Hermione. Look, Hermione. You're dying, Hermione. I remembered now. I remembered. I understood.

The ring on a pedestal in the Albanian cave, it looked older than I remembered it being. The one I had placed in my little beaded bag, it had shined more and had no scratches. It didn't look as worn as the ring in the cave. How long had it been there? How long had my family been holding onto a copy? How long had I been deceiving myself?

And then it really sank in.

"I'm a horcrux..."


	8. Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

Riddle chuckled, hands snaking over my naked flesh. From my hips to my front as he pressed his erection into my backside. One hand held the blade, covered in dried blood and ashes, and the other hand was sliding over the flat plains of my stomach down to the throbbing ache between my legs. The blade hand moved up my ribcage to my breasts and stayed there. The contact was unbelievable. The feel of him touching my exposed skin felt better than anything my dreams could have ever created.

"It took you long enough to figure it out," Riddle said, voice low and smooth. "An entire lifetime, and you never knew, but have you figured out why? Why it was you? Why he chose you?"

He was cupping the handle of the blade into my breast as he massaged it. The hand stroking my thigh was teasing me. I knew what he was doing. He was building up the anticipation again, sending more magic through me, teasing me to keep me in a state of pure, tingling bliss. I wanted to get lost in the sensation. I wanted him to touch me more, run his hands over every inch of me because it sounded like it would feel amazing. I wanted his fingers to-

No. No, I'm mad. I'm...so mad. Violated. Yes! That was the word. I felt angry and...violated! Riddle had admitted that Voldemort had turned me into a horcrux when I was, most likely, a baby. And that he had stolen my family's heirloom ring as a trophy. A piece of Voldemort had been living inside of me since I was too young to understand anything at all. I had been a horcrux my entire life! Longer than Harry ever had. I should be infuriated. I should be so incredibly angry that I would commit murder. And here I was whimpering for that very same man, my body begging for him to do more, stimulate more. It was hard to concentrate on being disgusted by him when all I wanted was more of him.

Back to the question, right? Why was I chosen? It seemed like a loaded question to begin with. Who knew why Voldemort chose me?

I guessed, "You choose me...because...Oh Merlin, oooh," Riddle's hand just grazed over my throbbing sex, "because Voldemort sent me back to you. It's looped in...in time. You choose me because you know...you know that you choose me. If you don't, then you will have died during the Final Battle..."

"Good girl," Riddle said, and he actually sounded impressed. "Are you ready for your reward, mudblood?"

I should be shoving him away and scrambling off of the table. I should be running for the proverbial hills. I should be disgusted and angry, and cringing away from his touch because of what he did to me. Or, was going to do to me. You know, after I'm born, and all. That was what I should be doing, feeling, but I wasn't. I was nodding eagerly, because Riddle's fingers had found exactly where I ached in the apex of my thighs. And he was expertly applying pressure to my throbbing clitoris, a finger teasing at my opening. His body was pressed against my back, erection thrusting and pushing against my arse, his fingers exploring me and hand groping my breasts; so many sensations that I couldn't focus on one specifically. They were all combining, mingling and drawing my attention every which way to keep me distracted, and I was letting Riddle do it.

It felt a-bloody-mazing.

"Tell me, mudblood," Riddle hissed into my ear. "Beg for it."

Another pleasurable wave was crashing through me, and all I could do was whimper pathetically, "Please, my Lord. More, please...Whatever you want. My Lord, please!"

Riddle's fingers massaged me faster as he pressed the sharp tip of the blade into the flesh above my heart. His mouth connected with the crook of my neck, teeth grazing and tongue massaging against my pulse and lips ending each movement with a kiss. There was a heavy pressure, deep in me that I was certain no one could possibly reach, and it was building. Deliciously building up to what felt like would be an earth shattering explosion of every single cell in my body. I would explode into millions of blissful particles, swirling up to the heavens and never coming down. That was what it felt like it would be. I wouldn't actually now until the pressure reached maximum capacity and erupted through me, right?

The fingers rubbing over my clit, harder and faster the more I panted and whimpered and moaned, were working me towards that awe-inspiring ending. Riddle had pulled his mouth from my neck, chanting into my ear as my body reacted to the new levels of pleasure pulsing through me. Searing heat and electric jolts, my body could hardly contain itself through all the pleasure. No wonder most of the students at Hogwarts were all sex-crazed. Who wouldn't become addicted to this? The sensations were utterly intoxicating. And to think I had been ignoring the pre-cursors to this for years. If I had known that the mere touch of my fingers could bring this type of euphoria, I would have given into masterbatory practices ages ago. Merlin's pants, I would have snogged Ronald ages ago if this was what was waiting for us in a broom closet!

Of course, I doubted Ron Weasley was as practiced and well-versed as Riddle obviously was.

I was close to the edge of something spectacular when Riddle slid a finger into me. That one finger, long and pale and slender, filled me as it searched for that aching spot inside. And, oh, did that finger find it. A bundle of nerves inside me that I didn't even know was there, and Riddle found it within seconds. I was already slick before that one glorious finger was inserted, but after, I could feel my pussy - yes, I just said pussy - beginning to drench his hand. He added another finger, working them in and out, stretching me as they massaged over that spot. New pleasures crashed over me, through me, into me as his fingers started slowly. Massaging that sweet spot until it was hard, expanding a little, and then his fingers increased the pressure, the speed. My whole body shook uncontrollably. I became more vocal, because this was turning out to be the best way to lose my virginity. I may die, but at least I'll have died in ecstasy.

"Almost, almost, almost," I panted, hips moving against Riddle's hand and fingers of their own accord. "So close...almost..."

Then he stopped, and I cried out because I had been so bloody close.

Riddle was still chanting as his hand guided my hips upwards. His hand reached down underneath me, and then I felt the tip of Voldemort's erection rubbing against my slit. I jerked and bucked at the contact, but I wasn't as afraid as I had been. The head of Voldemort's prick felt huge to me, because I was so small, but I was also so worked up and desperate that I didn't care anymore. I understood what my body had been craving. It wanted to be filled. I wanted to be filled.

I was so close.

The head of Voldemort was aligned with my opening, slick and hot and ready for him. Riddle slid his hand back to my waist and held me there, keeping me from impaling myself too soon. When he felt I wouldn't jump ahead, he let go and took my hand, slicing through the palm before doing the same to Voldemort's again. He did the same to our other hands, and I understood that I was supposed to lace my fingers with Voldemort's and press the palms together. The movement made the flesh above my heart sting. All the pleasure had made me oblivious to the fact that Riddle had been carving symbols there, runes and ancient glyphs that I didn't recognize. They were glowing, the symbols in my flesh. Or my blood welling up in the cuts were. Either way, I was glowing, and so was Voldemort as Riddle carved the same symbols into the flesh over his heart.

I wanted to ask what Riddle was doing to us, but the words wouldn't form to make a coherent question. I should ask, but once Riddle was finished and started a new wave of chanting, I was swept into another undercurrent of pleasure and all inquiries I should have pursued were forgotten. I was being guided down Voldemort's cock - oh yes, I said cock - slowly until the head bumped against my hymen. The stretching from the little bit that made its way into me was beyond uncomfortable, but the pleasure of the magic and Riddle at my back was mingling with it to make everything unbelievably enjoyable. Riddle's hand guided my hips upwards again, and then down until the tip of Voldemort hit my hymen again. The action eased the sting of the intrusion, until Riddle guided me to raise my hips up completely. He held me there, and I tightened my grip in Voldemort's unknowing hands to ease the trembling of my aching body.

New words, a new language Riddle was chanting as he set the blade down on Voldemort's chest and gripped my hips with both hands. A spark of fear ignited in me before Riddle's hands pulled me down onto Voldemort's cock in one swift movement. My hymen tore and my vaginal walls were forced to stretch in a split second until I was pressed against the base of him. I could feel the head of him against my cervix, almost painfully, and I realized we were as married as two people could possibly be at this moment. There was nothing closer than this, nothing more intimate than being this deep in me, and me being this pressed against his pelvic bone. It hurt more than the pleasure could even being to ease the sudden penetration. Riddle just held me completely still there, and I was unable to move more than a squirm to try and get comfortable. Voldemort was too big, and I was certain if this had been Riddle it would be the same. They were one in the same, just two bodies from different eras. It wasn't as if the proportions had changed after Voldemort had been reborn out a cauldron.

Riddle was moving me up and down now. Voldemort and mine's bodies were glowing brightly, and Riddle was overloading me with pleasure to keep me from fighting against the pain between my legs. Still chanting, Riddle had the tip of the blade pressed in the center of the symbols of over my heart as waves of pleasure rushed through me and into Voldemort, only to circle back into me. After a while of thrusting myself up and down on Voldemort, and the extra pleasure Riddle's magic was encasing us in, the pain started to ebb away. I didn't need Riddle to guide me anymore. It was clicking in my head how to move, how to rotate my hips to create the best sensations for me, since Voldemort was still unconscious. Riddle's free hand found its way to my breasts, staying there to grope and massage them both, roughly. He even pinched my nipples, hard as he twisted them. It didn't hurt at all, actually. One would think it would, but it only added to the pressure beginning to build up deep inside where no one could possibly reach.

I moved faster, as fast as I could manage, as I rode Voldemort. The bright, pleasurable lights encasing our bodies had dimmed and turned dark, ominous. I could feel the bright lights weaving through the dark glow emanating from our skin, as if the bright lights were sewing our souls together in some way. Sewing us together, tightly, for some unknown purpose I was certain Riddle would avoid answering. He was binding Voldemort and I together, and I was almost sure as to why. A binding this dark was bound to be beneficial for Voldemort, and not so pleasant for me, but, really, at this moment I wasn't too concerned with how badly this would end for me.

"Almost!" I shrieked, arching my back and throwing my head back to rest on Riddle's shoulder as another strong wave of pleasure tore through me. That pressure in me was so heavy, wound up and pulled taught, that one more pluck in the right spot would make me snap so divinely, it was all I could concentrate on. "Almost, almost, almost - THERE!"

It took me by surprise, my orgasm. It stole my breath. I had no control over my body as I convulsed and trembled and shrieked, still sliding up and down on Voldemort's cock, because I just couldn't stop myself. I could feel his cock swell, twitch, and release into me in spurts. Hot spurts that painted my cervix and caused an aftershock of pleasure that jerked my body forward. It was better than anything I could have possibly dreamed of. I soared higher than any bird in the sky, rocketing up towards the stars and I never wanted to come back down. This was better than any reality, any book, any friendship, any love. This was better than untainted lust. This euphoria that made me burn brighter than any supernova, it was more than addictive. And all I could think of, in that moment of ecstasy, was that this was the most amazing first time in the history of first times, ever. I would never regret this, never.

And I didn't regret it. Even as Voldemort's scarlet eyes flew open and he drew in a gasping breath of life. Even as Riddle plunged the blade through my flesh and into my heart. Even as my organs felt as if they were turning into molten liquid inside my body. My skin cracked everywhere, fire followed by an orange lava-like glow seeping out of the ripped flesh. I was burning alive and turning to ash, but I didn't want to. I didn't want to die. I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay here with the Dark Lord. There was still so much to learn from him. There was still so much to do! I couldn't die now. Not now. Not yet.

"NOOOOO!" I screamed, willing my magic to piece me back together, because I didn't know what else to do. Without a wand it was useless, but I tried anyway. I screamed and screamed, clenching my muscles against the pain and hoping that it worked. "NO!"

It hurt. Everything hurt, everywhere hurt, it just hurt. This was worse than Riddle's torture curse. Worse than losing loved ones and being the only one to survive. Every possible pain imaginable could not compare to this. This transcended pain. I was dying the most horrible death, and the saddest part? The thought of never seeing the Dark Lord again was the only thing on my mind. It was beginning to feel more painful than burning from the inside out. I didn't want to leave him. I wanted to beg Riddle to save me so I didn't have to leave either of them. My Dark Lords, my Riddles...my Masters. Why would they do this to me? Why would they destroy their own horcrux? Why were they making me leave them? Please, don't do this, was all I could think. Please, don't do this to me.

I had betrayed Harry and Ron, the Order, for these Dark Lords. I had betrayed everyone, even my parents. I had done it willingly and with complete understanding of what it meant. I had turned on everything I had ever known for them! I had given in, I chose Voldemort, so why were they doing this? What was the purpose? My skin was turning to ash before my very eyes, drifting off on a wind that started out of nothing. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I was a powerful witch, brightest witch of my age, but I wasn't strong enough to stop this. I wasn't strong enough to stop the wisps of black smoke from escaping out of my mouth. I wasn't strong enough to even speed up the process. I was just burning alive, waiting for the nothingness to take me.

Then I burst outward, ashes and bone fragments and heat all swirling together on the wind, into the steaming water of the bath before dissolving.

And that was the last I remembered. I ceased to exist.


End file.
